Untethered: Navigating Identity After Structure Falls Away

When I upturned my life to sail the world, I left everything behind. My adult children, siblings, friends, my fulfilling career, even my beautiful house filled with memories —one monumental decision and I let them all go. I left only one suitcase behind – things I struggled to let go of - and followed my dream. There were no ties, no safety nets, and nothing left to bring me back – well, except family. I miss them.

As a psychologist, I understood how this shift would likely affect me. I knew that a huge part of self-identity is wrapped up in the roles we play — our profession, our social circle, our place in the family. We wear these labels for so long that they become us. "I’m a mother." "I’m a psychologist." "I live in Melbourne." These aren’t just descriptions — they’re anchors. They give us meaning and belonging. I was really proud of what I had achieved in my life’s journey.

So, when I stepped away from all of that, I found myself feeling adrift in a different kind of sea. I was loving what we were doing — the adventure, the freedom, the beauty — but I started to have this nagging feeling that I wasn’t that great anymore. I wasn’t quite sure who I was anymore. I wasn’t getting emails from clients or colleagues asking for advice or showing appreciation for what I’d done. I wasn’t juggling tasks or being productive in the way I once was. I wasn’t respected. No one needed me. I wasn’t good at anything. All the things that I was proud of were tied to my old life, and as someone who doesn’t know how to sail or even drive a dinghy, I started to feel hopeless.

I suspect it’s a common feeling for people stepping away from their working lives, especially those heading into retirement. You’ve spent your whole adult life being "someone" — a teacher, a doctor, a manager — and then, one day, you’re not. All those things that supported your self-esteem – made you who you are lost. And while that might sound freeing, it can also feel like a loss.

I realised that the things that made me proud of myself were out of my control. I think we all carry around a kind of resume in our heads — a list of achievements and identifiers we use to measure our worth. Degrees, promotions, titles, properties, possessions. These things say, this is who I am, and this is why I matter.

But once I left it all behind, that resume started to feel pretty flimsy. Because here’s the truth — out here on the water, no one really cares what you did for a job. There’s a beautiful equality in cruising life. Your value isn’t determined by your CV. It’s measured by your kindness, your competence, your good humour, your willingness to help when someone’s anchor drags in the middle of the night. It’s humbling. And it can be disorienting.

Then I had a thought that shifted everything for me. I was thinking: when I die, what will be said about me?

Because in the end, no one stands at your funeral and lists your LinkedIn highlights. No one mentions your income bracket, the car you drove, or the suburb you lived in. They speak about the love you gave, the moments you shared, the way you made them feel. They talk about your generosity, your humour, your courage, your integrity. They tell stories of how you showed up when it mattered.

And that’s when it clicked: instead of clinging to my career resume, I decided to start building my eulogy resume. This is something that's completely in my control. In a world where the very bedrock of your life can be upturned out of your control, this feels like I am taking back control of the only part of me that really matters.

I want to be remembered for how I made people feel. For the laughter and honesty I brought into conversations. For the strangers I helped, and the friends I supported. For being real, warm, and human.

So now, I try to live in a way that adds to that eulogy resume, one day at a time. I try to leave every person I meet with something — a smile, a feeling of being seen, a small kindness. I try to show up fully, to be generous with my time and spirit, and to live with as much love and joy as I can.

It doesn’t dictate every move I make — I’m still just muddling through like everyone else — but this quiet idea has become a compass. When I feel uncertain or a little lost, it reminds me of who I am and what really matters. And it’s easy to be proud of myself again.

And the unexpected bonus? It’s made me a better person. Generous and more grounded in what truly counts.

Because the best version of me isn’t the one with the career accolades or the fancy address. It’s the one out here working to make the world a little better, showing up each day with a full heart and an open hand.